


on show

by humanveil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: DH Era, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 07:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12648957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: It’s not a display of attraction as much as it’s a public claim of ownership, and Draco knows that he ought to feel offended, or objectified, or anything other than the very real arousal that courses through his veins, but he doesn’t.





	on show

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**[snaco's](https://snaco.dreamwidth.org/) august prompt: exhibitionism.  
>  **Warnings:** Public sex, implied past threats of noncon, mild dub-con, deathly hallows era.

It’s something that has to be done.

At least, that’s what his mother says, and as she’s the only person Draco truly trusts right now, he listens.

“The Dark Lord is giving you a choice,” Narcissa tells him. “Whoever you want, so long as they’re willing.”

Draco wants to laugh _. How kind_ , he thinks. How absolutely wonderful. It’s rather typical, really. Forced to partake in a ceremony he wants no part in and then expected to be thankful that he does, at least, get to _pick_ who performs the violating act.

“I know it’s not ideal,” says Narcissa, and Draco does laugh, now. The sound a bitter huff of air. He looks at her, grey eyes clouded with repressed emotion, and whatever she’d been about to say dies on her tongue.

She steps forward, and Draco bows his head, allows her to press a soft kiss to his cheekbone. “You’ll be fine,” she says, her hand resting on his shoulder briefly.

Draco tries to believe her.

\--

In the end, he chooses Severus. Not because he necessarily wants it to be Snape, but because he doesn’t want it to be Carrow, or Dolohov, or—Merlin forbid—Greyback. He chooses Severus because his mother thinks performing the ceremony will keep him _safe_ , and out of all of them, Severus is the only person Draco trusts to do that.

Snape had been reluctant, but Draco had pleaded, begged, and he’d eventually got him to agree. It’s how they find themselves in one of the Manor’s larger rooms, Draco standing at Severus’ side as they wait for the Dark Lord to appear.

“I hope you realise what you’re getting into,” Severus murmurs. He seems completely unbothered, Draco thinks. Nothing at all like how Draco feels. “The others will watch.”

“I know.” His parents had warned him, had told him everything they knew about the ceremony. To Draco’s understanding, he does this—lets Severus make a claim of ownership in front of everyone—and then they can’t touch him. Can’t do anything to him unless Severus grants them permission.

 _“And he won’t,_ ” his mother had said. “ _He’s not one to share.”_

A large bed rests in the middle of the room, its shining sheets almost inviting. Draco stares at it, still unsure of how he feels. There is dread, definitely, but it’s mixed with something else. Something like relief. He wouldn’t say he’s _excited_ , but part of him can’t help but be glad. The threats the others send him—the greedy looks, the jeers, the promises that they’ll get back at Lucius through him—it takes a toll. Once this is over with, Draco thinks it might stop. Thinks that Severus might _make_ it stop.

It’s why he chose him.

Perhaps, Draco thinks with an internal sigh, he _is_ thankful he got to pick.

“They can’t join,” Severus continues, sparing him a glance, “but they can react.”

“I know,” Draco says a second time, harsher now. “It’s like some kind of deranged orgy. You get to fuck me while everyone else wishes they could.”

Severus’ snort is silenced as the room’s doors open, and Draco turns to see the Dark Lord walking toward them. Draco bows his head, hears Severus murmur _My Lord_ while he does the same. 

“Severus,” says the Dark Lord. “Draco.”

The name is accompanied by the brush of a cold hand against his jaw, the touch permission to look up, and Draco does. He meets the Dark Lord’s eye, swallows his fear—clears his mind.

“I trust you are prepared,” the Dark Lord continues, and there’s a trace of amusement in his tone that makes Draco’s blood run cold.

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Very well.” He looks between the two of them, his gaze lingering on Draco a moment longer than it does Severus. “Your arm,” he orders, and Draco offers his left forearm obediently.

His sleeve is pushed up, his marked flesh jabbed with the Dark Lord’s wand. Voldemort murmurs the spell, whispers the words to summon his followers, and then lets Draco’s arm drop. His eyes seem to glitter with mirth even as he turns away.

“Ready yourselves.”

Moments later, Draco finds himself pressed against the bed, his back on the mattress. He’d worn open robes—the fabric easy to pull apart, to push off—and Snape’s hands settle on his waist, his fingers reaching for the fastening.

“Try and enjoy it,” he offers, claiming Draco’s mouth seconds later.

It’s... weird. Severus’ kiss is impersonal and detached, and yet somewhere still enjoyable, still skilled. It’s purposeful, Draco thinks. There is intent—as if every one of Severus’ touches are an answer to a challenge.

It’s rather fitting, really.

By the time they pull apart, Draco can hear people entering the room—can hear their footsteps, their breathing. Can hear the soft chatter of their voices, the amused, intrigued tones. He turns his head to look at who’s watching, but a hand curls around his jaw before he can, forcefully holding his head in place.

“Don’t,” Severus orders, and Draco looks up, meets his gaze with a silent question. “You won’t want to know,” Severus continues, and Draco stares for a minute before moving his head in a sharp, minute nod.

As the room fills, as the handful of voices grow, as they merge together to develop one, indiscernible heap, Draco supposes that Snape is right.

There’s a tell-tale crack of a house elf’s Apparation, a scurrying sound of footsteps as refreshments are offered to the guests. Draco tries not to listen, tries not to focus on anything other than the press of Severus’ hands, on the way they pull his robes off with expert movements. A cool chill blows past, the sensation sending gooseflesh across his shoulders, down his arms, and Draco can’t repress his shiver.

There’s a yell from the background, an appreciative whistle. Draco reaches for Severus, mouth desperately seeking his to avoid the urge to look. He gets what he wants, gets more than what he wants. Severus is efficient, effective—he doesn’t waste any time, doesn’t draw the experience out. Fingers slip below the waistline of Draco’s pants, an eyebrow arching when he discovers a half-hard cock.

“I may have... prepared myself,” Draco admits, not meeting Snape’s eye.

His father had suggested an aphrodisiac, had even offered to brew it, but Draco had refused. He hadn’t wanted to appear too eager, had thought it better to simply prepare himself and hope the arousal carried through.

Severus’ only response is a twitch of his mouth, as if he might just smirk. He urges Draco down, makes him settle on his back as he pulls his pants away, leaving him naked. Draco can feel the eyes on him now, can hear the heavy breathing of some of those watching, the soft moans and grunts from those who decided to have some fun of their own. His reaction to it is mixed—there is disgust, but there’s also excitement. Apprehension and anticipation. Even with his dissatisfaction at the situation, he feels a faint flicker of arousal at being watched, at being admired.

Severus sits back for a moment, giving the others a better look of Draco’s body. Draco keeps his gaze on Snape, watches as he pulls away his outer cloak. He keeps going until he’s left in only his shirt and trousers, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. Draco has never considered Severus a particularly _strong_ man—has always valued his power as a wizard over his physicality—but the sight in front of him makes Draco think that maybe he ought to reconsider. Severus is still on the smaller side, is shorter and thinner than most of the other Death Eaters Draco has met, but it looks to be lean muscle. Solid strength.

When Snape reaches for him this time, Draco’s body jolts under the touch, arousal coiling in his core.

Fingers curl around the flesh of his thighs, inching toward his opening. It’s still slick with lube, and Snape presses two fingers inside, enjoys the way Draco arches into it, the way his eyes widen slightly. A choked, breathy moan falls from Draco’s mouth as Severus moves his fingers expertly, the sound met by laughter from the crowd. Draco can hear some people talk—can hear muttered admissions of how they wish they had Snape’s place, can hear others calling for Snape to fuck him properly.

It should make him recoil, Draco thinks. Should make him feel objectified, offended—should do anything _but_ send a surge of burning hot arousal through every part of his body. But it doesn’t, it makes him _want_ , and Draco chooses not to fixate on the reasons why.

Snape only spends a few minutes making sure he’d prepared himself adequately, and Draco can’t really blame him even if he does wish Severus would stay a moment more, would use his fingers to touch and tease, to bring Draco closer to the edge. He’d hardly been ecstatic about the situation, and Draco supposes that he’d prefer to get the ceremony over with sooner rather than later. That he’s not really participating because he _wants_ to.

At least, that’s what Draco thinks—right up until Severus is pressing inside of him, until the grip he has of Draco’s hips is so tight Draco can practically _feel_ the bruises forming, until Draco catches a flicker of emotion on Snape’s face. It’s something between want and restraint, like he’s trying to hold himself back.

The thought is pushed aside as Snape enters him, the long length of his cock easing into Draco inch by inch. Draco bites back a whine, the noise coming out muffled, and hears voices shout at him to not do that, to be louder, to _let us hear you_. He recognises a voice or two, but if he pretends that he doesn’t, then it’s almost okay.  

Snape stills once he’s buried to the hilt, gives Draco a moment to adjust. Dressed as he is, his body is still mostly hidden from the others. Draco understands why—the purpose is to punish _him_ , after all, to put _him_ on display—but he wishes it weren’t. Wishes he could see.

Severus starts off with uneven, irregular thrusts, trying to find Draco’s sweet spot. When he does find it, everyone knows. Draco almost yells, the sound leaving him quicker than he can stifle it. He presses back against Severus’ touch, hands curling against the sheets, his breath quickening to loud, heavy pants. His moans are guttural—increasing in volume as Snape works his way up to a rapid, unrelenting rhythm.  

Snape barely makes a sound, and Draco would admire the self-control if he could think straight—if he could think past the pleasure, the sensation of Severus’ touch. He has no say in the matter, no control of what happens, so he figures that he may as well enjoy it, that it’s best to lose himself in it. The voices around them grow louder, more obnoxious. Draco shuts his eyes even as the comments send a shiver down his spine.

Severus fucks him quickly, harshly—makes both him and the bed shake with the effort. They’re putting on a show, after all, and he’s supposed to be making a claim, supposed to be showing everyone that he _owns_ Draco, that Draco belongs to him. Every action is laced with possession, control, and Draco allows himself to revel in it.

It doesn’t last long, and nor is it meant to. Draco feels his orgasm building in the pit of his stomach, guesses that Snape’s is, too, if the way he’s starting to lose control is anything to go by. He leans into Severus’ thrusts, focuses on the feel of the thick cock sliding into him, stretching him open. A voice Draco doesn’t recognise comes from the crowd, yells that he looks so _pretty_ while being fucked, and Draco can’t hold it any longer.

He comes, a low groan filling the room, his body clenching around Severus’ cock. Snape fucks him through it—thrusts growing increasingly jerky and erratic until he’s spilling inside of Draco, his head fallen forward, lanky hair framing his face as he bites back his own groan.

Draco hears someone clap in the distance, hears someone else reach their own climax. It’s much less enjoyable now that he’s starting to come down from his high, so he continues to fixate on Severus. Watches as he catches his breath. His eyes are shut, but they open after a moment, a ferocious intensity simmering behind deep black. Draco has no idea what it means, but the sheer force of it is almost breath taking.

Severus is the first to move—pulling out of Draco with care and tucking himself back into his trousers. He reaches for Draco’s discarded cloak after, draping it over him to shield his body from the rest of them, the action met with a collective sigh of dismay. Draco ignores it, wraps the fabric around his frame.

There’s another call from the crowd—someone asking Snape if they can have a go, now—and as Severus sends an icy glare in their direction, Draco knows he’s made the right decision.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! comments/kudos are greatly appreciated ♥️


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